Nationals

You wear your flag like a second skin, the colors bright, the threads worn thin; And speak of victories long ago, In voices proud, yet soft and low. The tales are told, again, again the triumphs carved in dust and pen; The papers shout what you should hear, While silencing what’s less sincere. You count your coins, you guard your name, you say it’s just a noble game; But shadows stir beneath your cheer, A trembling hand you won’t let near. And so we stand on separate ground, no shared horizon to be found; Yet in the gap, I almost see A kind of peace for you and me.